Secrets
by purplecleric
Summary: We all have them ... I've been a bit serious of late so here's a AU look at some of Season 7 twisted with a silly premise. There's all our familiar characters, some fun, drama, a smattering of romance and MCS will never be the same again...
1. Prologue

_The meteor was nearing the end of its journey._

_It had travelled distances unimaginable to a human mind, had been travelling longer than the human concept of time. It had borne mute witness to marvels inconceivable to human imagination and was now destined to end its adventures in the atmosphere of the planet humans called home. Not by intention. After all, does a seed know its destination when it is lifted by a warm summer breeze?_

_It could be expected that it would end its journey in the grand finale of so many others of its kind -a flash, a brilliant streak in the sky. Its wonder observed by a privileged few who would be inspired, would wish, would dally in a moment of fancy or would be lost in an excited flurry of calculations, extrapolations and predictions. Did it anticipate this wondrous end? Is a rainbow aware of its magic as it glows briefly through sunshine and rain? _

_But it was not to be. Its flaming trail was lost to human observation in the spectacle of a thunderstorm raging in the skies above New York City. Its flash a paltry moment against the cords of lightening twisting and sparking in darkened skies. Instead of being consumed by fire, burned to ashes, obliterated to atoms, it was split asunder by a bolt of electricity. Did it regret? Does a parched flower mourn the lost opportunity to bloom when the rain fails to come?_

_The shards release their secret cargo, made potent by the energy ripping through the heavens. And this hitherto unknown phenomena bathed the building below, seeping through crevices and poorly fastened window frames, invading ducts and vents with its invisible sub atomic radiation. Why One Police Plaza? Does a tornado select which structure to destroy, which structure to leave intact?_

_The occupants were unaware of this intrusion as they went about their business. They were ignorant - as they answered phones, typed reports, conducted interviews, interrogations, post mortems - of the insidious invasion that was seeking out the particular combination of carbon, hydrogen, oxygen and nitrogen that was so attractive. Why so attractive? Does a compass needle know why it is compelled to swing towards magnetic north?_

_On encountering the complex combinations of its preferred elements, the radiation begins its work. A bond broken here, a new bond formed there – a subtle reshaping of the basic building blocks of human life. Secrets buried deep in genetic coding, only to be revealed later when conditions were right. Energy spent, the extraterrestrial force fades away. Was there any plan to this interference? Do the waves design the rearrangement of pebbles on the shore? Do the tides predict the series of impact it has upon the earth?_

_No. It is merely observed in the changes wreaked upon the landscape... _


	2. Ross

Ross strode into the squad room feeling out of sorts.

He couldn't put his finger on exactly what was wrong; there was just a sense of things not quite right, like the subliminal tension in the build-up to a storm. But the storm had been yesterday and it had been a hell of a light show, even knocking out the power a couple of times but taking with it some of the oppressive heat as it departed. This morning was sunny and bright, people were smiling and cheerful and he and Elizabeth had finally... No, he had no reason to feel off today.

Perhaps he was picking up some undercurrent of discord in the squad room. Instinctively his eyes sought out the two most likely causes.

Logan was pouring coffee with a big shit eating grin on his face and, judging by Petronelli's dour expression, the joke was obviously on him -probably lost a bet again. Not an unusual occurrence, Logan was willing to bet on anything and seemed to have the luck of the Irish. Petronelli would most likely get it in the neck from his wife later but Ross would place his own bet that they would soon kiss and make up. So, no simmering animosity there...

Goren, by contrast, was looking rather serious. His arm was resting on the desk as he leaned over Eames' shoulder, both of them studying something on the computer screen. His bulk dwarfed her, and many would feel uncomfortable with a man of his size looming over them, but Eames seemed at ease, comfortable even, with the invasion of her personal space. A brief flicker of speculation crossed Ross' mind and he dismissed it as a product of his own recent intimacy. Flights of fancy aside, there was no cause for concern here either.

Perhaps he was just coming down with something... He continued into his office and picked up the ringing phone.

"Eames, Goren! Scuba diver washed up by the pier – possible terrorism links. Here's the details."

He handed over his hastily scribbled notes and watched them leave with some envy. Maybe that was what was wrong - he missed being hands on. The feeling remained with him and he was grateful for the call from the FBI giving him an excuse to head down to the morgue, ostensibly to find Eames and Goren, but in reality pleased to see Elizabeth again.

"Morning, Rodgers."

He was not oblivious to the knowing glances the detectives exchanged and struggled to keep his face straight as he informed them of the summons.

The anti- terrorism briefing was an interesting display of power and politics; the G-men were all gathered at one end of the long table and Ross stood in solidarity with Eames at the other. Goren, of course, chose to go it alone – sat in solitary splendour in the middle. Why did the blasted man take every opportunity to demonstrate his suspicion of authority? Ross felt the oppressive feeling deepen, weighing down on his shoulders. Perhaps this odd feeling was simply the conflict of antagonism and compassion Goren provoked in him. God knows, the man had been through some stuff.

Over the next few days, he concluded this must be the answer, because although everything else in his life was running smoothly for once – the squad was performing efficiently, his ex- wife was blissfully silent, things with Elizabeth were blissfully... But every time he had to deal with Goren he experienced a heavy feeling, a tightness in his chest and struggled to catch his breath. He was aware it was making him a little sharper than usual.

He enjoyed the opportunity to show off his knowledge and love of history with a brief summary of the Roundtree family's sordid past. Maybe it was because it was a chance to demonstrate to Goren that he was not the only well- read individual on the planet. The enjoyment was spoiled, somewhat, by a sense of dread and he was relieved when the detectives left to hunt for the ship, Philomena.

The feeling did not pass, however. It intensified and his nose was filled with the scent of salt, waves crashed in his head and there was a sensation of swinging, of frantic falling, of struggling to breathe, of cold and wet and...

He came to with his face pressed against the thankfully solid surface of his desk. The sensations were gone but the images remained vivid in his mind. A quick glance around reassured him that his blackout out had gone unobserved and the still warm coffee cup was evidence that it had been brief. Damn! Tiredness was catching up on him: the long days at work, the long nights with Elizabeth. He'd have to take it a little easier...

But as Goren pushed past him on the boat, as Eames gave him a flip reply to his question, as Harper bobbed in the sea, held afloat by his life jacket, he struggled to ignore the memories of that strange episode that had preceded his blackout. Stress. It was just stress and an over- active imagination.

And there was plenty of stress.

The new detective foisted upon him, Falacci, proved to be in as much need of tight supervision as Logan and Goren, so now he had three unpredictable detectives to manage. It was not surprising that there were still troubling moments of intense sensations and vivid images coupled with a feeling of dread but, thankfully, no more blackouts. Most of the – he hesitated to use the word hallucinations – flashes were seemingly random; a wood panelled room and an old man in a leather chair, twisted with pain, for example.

Others seemed to be absurd at the time, like him taking a statement from a suspect. He didn't do things like that these days, didn't have the time. But as he sat in the interrogation room questioning the PI about bribing a judge, he felt a shiver of recognition. And the screaming match in the squad room between the blonde actress and her pathetic husband –cum- director had also been hauntingly familiar.

He kept these thoughts to himself, aware enough was made of Goren's instability and the impact it had on his career. He didn't want to be tarred with the same brush; he'd worked too hard to get here. And anyway, it was just stress. He'd ease off a little, cut back on the coffee, maybe get some exercise...

He shied away from making any more sinister connections between his "dreams" and actual events – that was just ludicrous. And he particularly avoided thinking about the one waking dream that kept recurring; the oppressive heat, the panic at not being able to move, the confusion and desperation, the overwhelming thirst...


	3. Falacci

Stupid, stupid cow!

She'd blown it. She knew it had been a combination of things but it didn't make it any easier. Falacci cradled the warm mug in her hands, it's 'Princess' logo mocking her. Logan was off chasing up his winnings from the book he had running on departmental liaisons. Those unlucky enough to bet against Ross and Rodgers were in for a sorry day. At least her misery would have some company.

Her new assignment had started off well, despite the ominous sounds of thunder rattling around the building. She'd been pleased with the transfer; her new captain seemed on the ball and her new partner was old school, a type she was familiar with as there seemed to be one or two of them in every precinct. She'd called up her mates from Brooklyn North to get the skinny on Logan and had been surprised to discover that this was the infamous Logan; notorious for his temper and for punching a councilman but with a reputation for good, solid police work.

While she knew there were no slouches in MCS, she had dreaded being partnered with an old timer marking off the days until his retirement or even worse – she shuddered a little at the thought – Goren. She'd run into Bishop at a training seminar and over a girlie lunch had been treated to an account of her temporary transfer to MCS. When details of her own new assignment had come through, she had wondered...

This case had started off well, too. The call had come in very late and it was always easier to sneak out of the house when the kids were in bed, when they weren't clamouring for her attention and distracting her with their demands. She loved them to bits but this was her first case at MCS and she wanted to make a good impression, didn't want to get bogged down with errant lunchboxes and homework disputes when she needed her A-game. It was bad enough having to deal with this low grade fever she was running.

Okay, she had been a bit heavy handed, a bit bossy even, but she was so used to having to fight her corner and fight to be noticed that it was ingrained now. Then she'd got carried away and run her stupid mouth off. She put her mug down and stretched back in the chair, the heat in her face not just from the fever as she relived the encounter in the captain's office.

"Which one of you kicked the judge out of his own home?"

And Logan truly was old school, had taken the flack for his new partner. And because she was still full of fight she had not let him, had let her mouth run off some more. Her cheeks burned as she remembered the dressing down she had received, at the grit in the Captain's voice, at his stone cold glare...

Fuck it! Can't change it now. Irritated with herself, she reached for the mug and took a hasty gulp. The scalding coffee seared her mouth and she coughed and spluttered, trying to avoid spitting it out all over her desk. Jeez, it hadn't been that hot, not even when she'd poured it.

"Got a drinking problem, Falacci?"

She was still trying to recover from dealing with the mouthful of fire; otherwise it might not have been her desk that she spat at, but the pause gave her a moment to see the humour, not malice, in Logan's comment and, after finally managing to swallow, she returned Logan's grin. Yeah, she could have a worse partner.

Actually, it was kinda fun working with Logan; they seemed to slip into step easily. But if Major Case had a higher class of criminal, those criminals also had a higher class of attitude. Take Ron Hawk, that smarmy ex- CIA jerk. God, she had wanted to take that cigar and shove it up his... She'd felt the sweat sticky in her hair and hoped her face didn't look as hot as it felt. Probably a virus one of the kids brought home from school, but she'd started to have to wear tanks and T's all the time, in an attempt to feel comfortable.

And that self- deluded director who, even though he was clad in an orange jumpsuit and sharing a cell with a stoner, believed he was on some immersive experience to further his "art". Fuck, he had made her blood boil. Even the door handle had felt hot as she wrenched the door open to finally escape into the fresh air of the Riker's parking lot.

"Hey, Falacci, you're smokin'-"

She rounded on Logan, ready to bite his head off at the lechery she knew was coming, because they all showed their true colours in the end, that was why she always had to fight... but the expression on his face drew her up short.

"Next time you want to hide your butt in a hurry, put it out first."

He pointed to her fists thrust deep into her pockets, and sure enough there was a tendril of smoke curling up from the left hand one. Hastily, she snatched her hands out, patted down her jacket and the smoke dissipated. It would have been funny, but she didn't smoke...

The incident played on her mind, especially as her fever continued even though she had taken some Tylenol and Steve reported that none of the kids were showing any signs of illness. Scalding coffee, hot door knobs, singed pockets, hot flushes, hot temper – Christ, it was hot in the squad room, it was making her brain addled. She needed to get out of here.

Police Plaza was refreshingly cool and Falacci tried to dispel the heat further by swinging her arms as she paced back and forth.

"Hey, baby, looking good!"

Fuck, she hadn't noticed the huddle of construction workers.

"Darling, wanna ride on this?"

This last comment was accompanied by a graphic gesture and a round of whistles and jeers. She hated fucking catcalls, hated that she worked so hard to be taken seriously only to be demeaned in the street, hated –

A trashcan burst into flames providing a welcome distraction for the crew and she spotted the director and his three- time wife heading across the square. Showtime!

"Good job!"

She basked in the Captain's praise – her first case at MCS and they'd got a result. Logan had even asked her out for a drink and it hadn't seemed like a play, more like partners celebrating. It was with a little regret that she had reminded him that she had a husband and kids to get home to. She felt on top of the world as she strode out of the squad room, felt better than she had in a couple of days.

She was Superwoman! She was a bit giddy with the triumph. She thought back to her scorched mouth and scorched pockets, to the trashcan fire... Hell, she even had superpowers! In a moment of pure silliness, she waved her hand in an elaborate gesture, aimed a finger at a small pile of leaves and twigs that had gathered in the corner by her stoop.

"Shazam!"

Nothing happened, and laughing at her foolishness, she opened the door to the riot of family greetings.


	4. Logan

Logan was feeling good, and it showed in his swagger, the salsa shake of the bag of Skittles he'd just got from the vending machine and the cheerful tune he has was whistling between his teeth.

The change of captains had given him a few nights of worry but he now felt established at Major Case. He'd splashed out on a couple of new suits to fit in but still hung on to his blazers and beloved plaid ties – in an odd way, they kept him grounded. Memories of Staten Island were fading, but the lessons learned were not.

And the squad might be hailed as the elite, but they were still suckers for some action as his black book could testify. He scanned the room, checking for those who still had to cough up on the Ross-Rodgers combo. That had been an inspired option and very lucrative. Petronelli avoided his gaze and he decided to cut the guy a break for a couple of days. After all, he'd already been stung on the big fight. But Eames...

Grinning, he tossed the bag of Skittles up in the air, caught it then pitched it to land square on the desk in front of Eames. He didn't miss the brief flash of disappointment that crossed her face when she realised it was him that was the gift-giver.

"What's this, Logan? What are you sweetening me up for?"

Realisation dawned and she fished in her purse for her wallet.

"OK, how much?"

She handed the notes over, and there was a pause and then she asked quietly;

"And the odds on ... you know."

"No takers, too low. Everyone thinks you and the big guy are a shoo- in."

"Yeah, well, I wish someone would tell him."

They both turned and looked at the man in question who was in the glass- walled interview room, standing in the middle of a circle of papers laid out on the floor, a look of intense concentration on his face.

"I'm surprised you've not taken the bull by the horns, so to speak."

His leer was infectious.

"Logan, I swear I could stand butt naked in front of him with the words 'Do me' written across my belly and all he would do is give me an analysis of the pent- up frustration inherent in my penmanship."

Logan was not so sure; he'd seen the look on Goren's face when he thought Eames was not looking. He made to move away, not comfortable with the role of confidante, but Eames was not finished.

"Lay off Petronelli, will ya? His wife is pregnant; he's got enough on his plate."

Waving his reassurance, mind churning with the opportunities presented by odds on gender and date of birth, Logan returned to his desk. Falacci looked up from the report she was reading.

"You done? Cos we've still got the football team to interview."

Even the implied criticism in her tone could not take the edge off his good mood. Yeah, he'd been a little worried about his frequent changes of partner – hell, even Goren had managed to hang on to Eames for all this time. But Falacci was all bite and bitch and it felt great to play the good cop for a change, to use a little finesse.

Life was good. There'd even been a thunderstorm – a real doozy. He loved storms, loved the noise and the drama, the feeling of raw energy and power. He still felt a little charged up thinking about it.

Ross emerged from his office, a sharp look on his face and Logan hunched, trying to avoid drawing attention to himself. Although Falacci had been getting most of the flak from that direction lately, he was still a little unsure of the captain.

"Ah, Logan! Just the man I wanted to -"

"Sorry Cap'n. We're off to see some alleged rapists, posing as future NFL stars. Catch you later..."

Thankfully, Fallaci caught on quickly and was only a step behind him as he hurried out of the squad room.

He could sympathise with his partner's frustration. ADA Hoyle was a pain in the ass, the football coach an even bigger one. He looked at the pile of useless paperwork on his desk and sighed. Just dump it. He tugged at the drawer, the handle breaking and coming off in his hand. Cheap, shoddy department issue crap! He could feel the anger rising and instinctively patted his wallet, the old newspaper clipping serving as a reminder, like a twelve-stepper's medallion.

Falacci was an equally potent reminder; her anger swirling around him only seemed to make him feel more laid back than ever. A couple of times he'd bitten but he'd not lost control, like he had in the past. Must be getting mellow in his old age. He was grinning at that thought as he tussled with the drawer, trying to prise it open with his knife but it was stuck fast. He didn't actually need to open the drawer but he couldn't let the challenge slide. There was a loud twang, his hand slipped and he was shocked to see the broken blade.

Damn! Now he had to get the drawer open, was not going to let it beat him. He got down and probed around under the desk until he could feel metal runners and the bottom far edge of the drawer. Gotcha! Hooking his fingers, he pulled hard and the drawer shot loose, crashing to the ground and sliding a surprising distance across the floor. He looked up- to a roomful of startled faces.

"Sorry, didn't know my own strength."

No, he didn't...

Sheepishly retrieving the errant drawer, he straightened only to come face to face with Ross. He tightened his grip on the steel drawer, anticipating a caustic comment, which surprisingly didn't come. No, the only surprise was the way the metal flexed and bent under his hands.

"Logan, my office..."

The captain's voice was stern and serious and there was no humour in his face. Logan's heart sank, this was not about causing a commotion, he must have heard about the bets...

Ross' back was turned when he entered the office, his posture stiff and tight-shouldered, impossible to read. Logan fiddled nervously with the coins in his pocket.

"I hear you're pretty flush these days, Logan. "

He didn't know the best way to respond to that, so opted to remain silent, gripping the coins harder.

"You know, when fortune smiles on you, its traditional to give thanks by making a donation to charity. "

Ross turned, his smile broad, the Police Benevolent Fund collection box held in an outstretched hand.

Logan escaped from the office, his heart lighter and his wallet considerably lighter. But no official reprimand. Buoyed by his narrow escape, he waived Petronelli 's outstanding debt, only half thinking of the future profits to be gained from his impending fatherhood.

Yep, life was good. He was fine, he was lucky and – he fingered the bent coins in his pocket – he was _mighty_. With a wolfish grin, Logan headed into the canteen looking for Falacci, the toughened glass door cracking as he shoved it open...


	5. Rodgers

"Morning, Rodgers."

Damn the man! Why didn't he just hang a sign around his neck declaring they'd knocked boots last night? Not that there were any boots involved... Rodgers caught Goren's little smile and felt strangely bashful.

"Captain."

She tried to keep her tone neutral and wasn't sure where to look. She could feel those magnetic blue eyes boring into her. It was a relief when he left, taking the detectives with him, leaving her with the cold, silent predictable corpse.

That was the way she liked it. Everything here was under her control. Her staff knew their jobs, there was a sense of order and even the environment was controlled with no external windows to allow the variations of natural light to intrude. Of course, there were other intrusions. The detectives came down regularly for updates on labs results and questions about findings in the post mortems. But most were easily dealt with, happy to be dismissed with blunt facts, unwilling to linger in the presence of death in case it was catching. But some...

Goren, for example. He seemed to make himself right at home. He was always in the way, fiddling about with the bodies, poking and prodding, and had an uncanny knack for finding the rare things she missed. And Danny – who had come down to introduce himself when he had taken over as captain of Major Case and seemed to get a lot more hands- on than his predecessor. She blushed at the thought of exactly how hands- on he could be. She hadn't intended on getting involved with a colleague, didn't want to, not after Lenny.

But he'd interrupted her solitary lunch one day – eaten in the morgue as usual - and had expressed interest in the Schubert piano sonata she was listening to. And he'd persuaded her the next day to eat lunch with him in the canteen, something she usually avoided because it involved having to make pleasantries and small talk and her presence seemed to kill other people's appetites. Persuaded her with his appreciation of classical music, his dry wit that matched her own and – no, she was not shallow enough to have been charmed by a riot of curls and lively blue eyes.

It might have stayed that way, a congenial friendship, if it hadn't been for that goddamn thunderstorm. She'd been unaware of it as the morgue was buried deep in the bowels of 1PP, the only hint of something being amiss was the flickering lights as the generators tried to compensate for the intermittent power loss. She'd found the almost strobe light effect distracting and was more than a little annoyed by the time Danny had turned up to check if everything – she! – was alright. She'd swung round to vent some of her irritation at him, just as the power died completely and had found her hands full of tight springy hair, tight trim body and her protests silenced by a mouth far from tight. ..

As she was reminiscing, her hands had been busy; pulling up the blue sheet to cover the bearded lifeless face, stripping off her gloves, signing off the paperwork. She noticed one of the corpse's hands was still untucked and reached over to remedy the situation. The skin was alarmingly cold and she was shocked to see she had touched the flesh without the protective barrier of latex gloves. A stupid rookie mistake. A sharp pain stabbed in her right side, knocking the breath from her and she doubled over, clutching at her side. The pain stopped as abruptly as it had started, and all that was left was the faint echo of Islamic prayer in her head. Her mind went briefly to the two jagged wounds stark against pale flesh...

Goddamn it! This is why she avoided the complications of people. One breach of her defences and her brain had turned to mush. Forgetting her gloves, stupid flights of fancy – bah! With more force than was necessary, she wheeled the trolley out of the room.

"Worst example of Caisson's disease I've ever seen."

Another diver and that niggling part of her brain had not been able to forget the strange incident with the other diver's body. And the curiosity that had driven her to science just had to_ know._ Feeling both ridiculous and excited, after a quick glance to ensure no one was looking, she had peeled off her glove and cautiously touched the marbled skin...

The pain this time had been deep, mainly in her shoulders and her skin had itched all over, like ants crawling subcutaneously, her head swam with dizziness and panic and she had reeled with the nausea.

Goren's voice intruded into her memories.

"...something made him panic."

She could not keep the tone of horror from her voice when she replied to Eames' comment about the retreating anchor.

"He was in open water? That'd do it..."

After that she couldn't resist, even though there was often pain and terror. And it was more than mere scientific curiosity driving her. It was the promise of a moment of... connection.

Some were as expected. Monica Fry, the therapist wife of a judge, had revealed nothing more than a quick burn in her shoulder and a massive but also thankfully brief eruption of agony in her chest. Others were worse than she had predicted. She knew that the young black writer had been tortured, had expected the pain in her hand and the fierce throbbing torment in her belly. But she hadn't expected the feelings of betrayal, the hope dying, the fear...

The worst had been Traci Kwon. Rodgers had felt the cerebral haemorrhage explode in her head but not before her mind had been filled with such sweet innocence; a purity that had sheltered Traci despite her sordid night job as a stripper, had fostered a love with her fiancé that was so tender and had inspired an overwhelming faith in God. Rodgers – hard hearted, die- hard atheist – had wept. When Logan and Falacci had dropped in to check if the suggestions of rape were true, she found she couldn't resist stroking Traci's hair protectively.

She kept this to herself. After all who would believe her? She was just thankful this – whatever it was – didn't extend to living people. She could cope with Danny on a physical level but on a deeper level? That was the most terrifying thought of all.


	6. Eames

Eames was restless.

The need for constant motion was overwhelming. She'd tried to bleed it off in a punishing run this morning, had pushed herself harder and farther than usual, even now her legs felt a little wobbly as a result. But still she fidgeted and fussed about her desk; swivelling and sliding her chair, hands in perpetual motion as she rearranged the stationery, heel tapping as her knee bounced. She was distracted but still felt the need for more distraction; the line of assorted beverages a testament to that urge.

She wondered if this was how her partner felt when he exhibited these symptoms but didn't think so. His displays were usually a demonstration of his brain busy at work; figuring people out by their possessions, the metronome of pen tapping keeping beat as his mind ranged up and down the scales of evidence. Her mind had no such rhythm to tether her- it flitted about like a butterfly, unable to settle. Exasperated, she took a swipe at the pencil pot, scattering its contents across her blotter and thrilled at the sight of the chaos, of now having something to _do._

Even though her hands were now occupied, her eyes continued to dart about the squad room, a series of images flashing like a slideshow. Petronelli hunched over the phone, whispering into the handset, trying to avoid being overheard. Judging by the sappy smile, probably calling his wife. Ross, hands on his hips, confronting Logan and Falacci in his office and from the direction of his glare, it was Falacci getting both barrels today. By the fax machine, the newest addition to admin staff was living proof of the biggest distraction of them all; her flustered expression and reddened cheeks at odds with her street–wise persona as she fell under the spell that could still be cast by a middle – aged, overweight detective.

Eames watched with amusement as the fax spluttered into life and Goren's charm vanished as quickly as it had appeared, lost to the more exciting prospect of credit card records and leaving the poor girl disoriented in its wake. She'd learn. Eames certainly had. Had been repelled by odd behaviour and an aloof attitude, had been drawn in by that incredible sweet smile, had been driven away by arrogance and ego, pulled back by the appeal in those expressive brown eyes... His constant contradictions swung her back and forth. No wonder she felt so unsettled, was all at sea.

Another distraction: Falacci stormed out of the captain's office, her anger almost tangible and increasing as Goren strayed, oblivious, into her path, his head down concentrating on the papers he was reading. Falacci flapped her arms in frustration at having her progress impeded and - Eames tried not to snigger – even stamped her foot as Goren showed no sign of being aware of her presence. When at last the slow moving obstacle was out of her way, Falacci marched out of the squad room, tossing her hair at the affront. Logan ambled after his partner, catching Eames' eye on the way, his smile and shrug a shared conspiracy of having difficult partners. The laughter bubbled in her throat.

"No suspicious activity on the credit cards; groceries, gas, the occasional – what?"

Goren's bemused expression was the final straw and the dam broke; her laughter erupted, shaking her whole body. How could he be so perceptive yet so fucking ignorant? The laughter faded, taking with it some of her restlessness and finally she could focus on the case.

Unfortunately, it didn't stay that way. Late afternoon found her back at her desk, as fidgety as before, with the added pressure of several tasks needing to be completed before she could knock off for the day. But fortunately without the distraction of her partner; Goren had headed off to the library to do some research. Strangely, though, his absence was as distracting as his presence.

Right! Focus, woman. She'd been to the bathroom, had fetched a coffee (decaf, considering the jitters she already had), had finished fiddling with packets of sugar and little tubs of creamer, had stirred the drink until she was in danger of scraping the glaze off the mug. She had no excuse. She just had to get on with it.

One hand reached for a pen, the other for the folder on the top of the pile and her other hand tucked the errant strand of hair behind her ear. Wait... She looked at the pen, the folder, at both hands occupied...Nah, she must have dealt with her hair before picking up the pen.

Even though she was all prepared to start filling in the form, her mind was still not ready. Her partner's empty chair nagged at her, like another task to be done. In a way, she guessed it was. She thought back to Logan's comment about grabbing the bull by the horns, thought of her reply that had only been partly in jest. Timing was everything with Bobby. If he was lost in an investigation, he just wouldn't notice. If he was high on success, he'd just fob it off as getting carried away in the moment. But she couldn't just let things carry on like this, she was too full of this _need_ to make things happen... The coffee cup slid across the desk into her waiting hand and she raised it to her lips.

It had not been the right time after that whole kidnapping business. She did not want his attention to be born out of sympathy or guilt. And then he'd been preoccupied with his mother's illness. Then that Brady nightmare. Then his mother's death. She wanted to be more than port in a storm, not a straw clutched at in the storm of his grief. The pens rattled in the pot, distracting her further and she silenced them with a thought.

It must have been finding the truth out about Joe's death that had brought this sense of wanting things to change. Closing one chapter, eager to begin the next. She'd been close to making a move. Holding up the underwear in Dana's pad had been the perfect moment for a flirtatious comment but for some reason it had died on her lips. She watched in fascination as her pen rolled across the desk towards her. She'd been glad of her hesitation when she had watched his temper flare, giving Harper a dunking. The pen rolled away. His obvious admiration for the young black writer had brought her close again. The pen rolled back towards her. But the cruel way he had treated that old hack had her backing off once again. The pen rolled away and with deliberation, she lifted it although her hands remained relaxed on the desk, feeling all that restlessness being channelled, letting go...

The pen rose, spun slowly then shot forwards making a direct hit on the back of the empty chair, would've pierced his heart if he had been there. Okay, she would end all this dithering about, would bring things to a head – the pen drifted back into her hand, her mind buzzing with possibilities – one way or another...


	7. Goren

Thunderstorms really upset Goren.

He was not astraphobic and did not feel the need to take shelter or blot out the noise. It was just that they stirred so many unpleasant memories. Thunder and lightning had always keyed into his mother's delusions and she had been at her worst during storms. He remembered cowering in closets and under tables as his mother whirled about the house, screaming like a banshee, convinced Armageddon had come. If she found him, she would punish him for being cowardly, for being such a child of sin that he could not face his God; her faced twisted with terror at the prospect of her own judgement.

While his rational adult mind knew he had little to fear from a storm, the child within remained scared, confused and vulnerable – convinced that the world that he knew had suddenly turned against him. As a result, every crash of thunder, every flash of lightning seemed to peel away another layer of Goren's defences, leaving him feeling exposed, insecure and a little paranoid. The feelings would linger for days, sometimes weeks and to cope he would retreat into work, into himself, raising the drawbridge. Thin-skinned and sensitive, his temper and a heightened suspicion became his sword and shield until the barriers were rebuilt.

It was worse since his mother's death. Knowing the source of his mother's delusions coupled with grief and guilt had only aggravated the situation. So he was not on best form this week.

Logan's black book was a prime example. Goren_ knew_ he used it to keep track of the bets and the reason he was not included in the pool these days was because Logan had lost too much money to him in the early days. But today, as he watched Logan move from desk to desk making notations in that book, he became convinced that Logan was tracking his movements, collecting data on him from his colleagues. Stupidly, and only briefly, but...

And at the pier, the crowd had gathered, and it felt like all their eyes were on him and all their whispered speculations were about him.

"I hate the beach."

He had definitely not been in the right mood for FBI terrorism speculations.

Irritated by his ridiculous notions, Goren took refuge in the interview room, laid out the paperwork on the floor and tried to lose himself in speculations of a different kind. But he couldn't focus – he could see Logan and Eames deep in conversation. Not Eames, not her as well. The one person who...

He gathered up the papers and marched over to his desk, ignoring Logan's departure, focused only on Eames. A small voice crept into his brain.

_...wish someone would tell him...because I'm too scared..._

Tell him what? What didn't he know? What was so scary? Then Goren's rational mind took over, dismissed the thoughts as a symptom of the storm- induced paranoia and turned back to the case. Searching Dana's residence had produced another uncomfortable moment, not just the sight of Eames dangling men's underwear like an invitation to contribute his own, but the voice again.

_...why don't you see?... _

See what? What is he missing?

A new fear began to creep in that this was not his usual hypersensitivity after a storm but true paranoia coupled with hearing voices... No wonder he'd lost it a little with Harper. The fear increased all through the next case because the voice didn't let up.

_...right there in front of you...now...no, not now...don't leave it too long... stop dithering... _

And to his shame, he vented his feelings on that pathetic author. That night he had gone home, got a little drunk and slept heavily – a blessed silence in his head.

Whether it was a good night's sleep or the inevitable waning of the storm's effect, the next day Goren felt a lot better. He'd even passed an idle moment waiting for a fax by flirting with the new girl from admin, delighting in the way he could turn her 'been there, done that' attitude to 'sweet sixteen and never been kissed. '

He'd hoped the credit card records would provide them with another avenue to follow up, and he studied them intensely. Disappointed, he updated Eames.

"No suspicious activity on the credit cards; groceries, gas, the occasional – what?"

Her laughter was joined by laughter in his head and the return of the voice.

_... so fucking ignorant... _

He seized the opportunity to flee to the library on the pretext of research and resisted the temptation to consult the DSM-IV Diagnostics Manual. After all, he already knew the symptoms of paranoid schizophrenia far too well. The library was quiet, and so was his mind and it was with reluctance that he returned to the squad room. It was quiet there, too – most of the staff having left for the day.

Eames was at her desk and he pulled over a chair, straddling it, resting his chin on arms folded on the back of the chair, not wanting to interrupt her work, wanting to watch her for a moment.

_... swing his leg over me like that..._

What the fuck!

_... perhaps I should strip naked..._

The voice was loud and clear, giving words to buried fantasies and it was her voice, his fantasies-

_... size thirteen? I wonder... so much of him, I could get lost in exploration... ...if that smile tastes as good as it looks...to see love in those eyes...love... _

Eames had put down her pen and was looking at him. His mouth was suddenly dry. He'd been on the verge of confiding in her about the voice, about his fears. Confessing doubts about his sanity, about creeping paranoia was one thing. She knew his background, knew it was a possibility, would deal with it in her usual pragmatic way. But admitting that the voice in his head was her voice, and it spoke of secret longings and sexual fantasies, and even more revealing, spoke of love...

He balked.

"Need a hand finishing those forms?"


	8. Logan and Falacci

Falacci's feelings of being a superwoman were soon worn away as the weekend began.

She struggled through Saturday, as the family tried to catch up on chores and each other, as she was bombarded with questions, demands, requests. No, she didn't want to have dinner with Steve's boss, but it was politic and only if they could find a sitter. Where the hell was she going to find the time to help her eldest make a model of a plant cell out of foodstuff and take the youngest out to collect five examples of leaves? The middle one had torn his pants again and they all had come home with a sheaf of letters needing signing and an assortment of birthday party invites that would need transport to be organised and presents shopped for. Two were themed parties and that meant fancy dress...

And the sitter cancelled, so that meant the monthly date- night with Steve was off. And the fever was back.

She stood in the laundry room, feeling ready to explode, and yanked open the door to the washer, dragging out the wet, heavy clothes. Steve's once brilliantly- white dress shirt was now a delicate shade of pink.

"Argh!"

The stack of newspapers that stood by the back door, waiting to be recycled, burst into flames. She hadn't been imagining it! She watched the flames flicker in fascination. The sound of the smoke alarm broke into her speculations.

"He hasn't been playing with matches again?"

"Wha' ? Uh, no. Just a freak thing..."

She smothered the flames with an old damp towel and followed a puzzled Steve back into the negotiations over which flavour pizza to order and which DVD to watch.

Sunday provided little opportunity to experiment with this new discovery, but more opportunities for fun. A riotous lunch with friends blessed with a similarly large family followed by play in the park. They'd even remembered to find the leaves. But as the day drew to an end, the tension built again as the new week loomed and everyone was caught up in the frantic preparations to get ready. Steve was pissed because he'd wanted to wear the ruined shirt tomorrow, the kids were mad at the return to school night bed-times, none of their sports kit seemed to be in the logical places and she was still trying to mend the pants. She could hear the kids' wheedling voices upstairs, could hear Steve's gruff voice soften as he gave into their pleas, and headed over to the sink. Filling a bowl with water, just in case, she focused on the line of candles arranged on the windowsill. She let her anger build, let it out and –

The candles flickered into life. Cool! If she could light them, could she put them out? She sucked the anger back in and the flames were replaced by thin trails of smoke and that distinctive smell. She played with variations of this for a while then, remembering her silly moment on the stoop, she pointed her finger. A flame appeared at the tip but she had no sensation of burning. Rapt, she cupped her hand and the small flame became a ball of fire cradled in her palm. There was no weight, no heat just this beautiful sight and a feeling of power. At the sound of Steve's steps on the stairs she closed her fist and the flames vanished.

"Sorry about getting mad over a stupid shirt, I'll wear the blue one. You always say it brings out the colour of my eyes. Tomorrow's client is a lonely old girl, I could use the edge."

His hands circled her waist and all thoughts of fire were lost in his kiss.

Logan's weekend, on the other hand, had been a blast.

After a few accidents – his landlord had eyed the broken door with suspicion – he'd been merrily testing his new ability. Cutlery had been bent and furniture moved with ease. He'd surreptitiously lifted a couple of cars a few inches from the ground on the way to the bar and had tilted the pool table to roll the balls into a more advantageous position.

He'd only broken one glass, and had resisted the temptation of the arm-wrestling contest because he was not sure he had sufficient control to avoid causing a permanent injury. He had a sneaking suspicion that he could actually tear someone's arm off, and that would be very hard to explain. He'd also toyed with the idea of earning some cash, along the lines of 'I bet you I can lift...' but again, the explanations would be tricky.

Yep, he was feeling good.

Energy flooded his body and he felt confident and relaxed. And horny. Very horny. Unfortunately the bar had offered few opportunities to satisfy that urge. The women were either taken, too young or just too needy. He'd just have to make do with one of the porno movies Petronelli had passed on before he'd got married and some one- handed entertainment.

He thought of the way the glass had shattered in his grip and shuddered. Maybe he wouldn't take himself in hand.

Sunday passed quickly in his comfortable routine. There was some sketchy tidying and cleaning - good enough for bachelor standards anyway. He checked he had enough clean laundry for the week and joined some buddies at a different bar for the ball game.

But mainly he concentrated on not breaking things. Okay, there were a couple of cracked plates, he'd torn the sleeve of one of his shirts and some of the cutlery was knotted because he just couldn't resist... On the whole though, he'd thought he'd got the measure of his new strength. Provided he didn't get distracted.

"Get ya leg over this weekend?"

Falacci would have usually bristled at such a comment but the idea that she could blast Logan with a fireball bolstered her. She gave him a look of 'I'm not telling' that told him anyway, and threw the ball back in his court.

"You?"

Normally Logan would rather die than admit he'd been less than lucky with the ladies, would have made up some lurid tale, but he was feeling good, feeling strong – didn't feel the need to prop up his ego with lies.

"Nah, lucked out. So the bad guys had better watch out this week, eh, partner?"

He raised his mug in salute and she clinked hers against it. Their eyes met and both sensed a subtle shift had occurred. Individually they were powerful but together... they were unstoppable.


	9. Goren and Eames

A busy weekend with a big family celebration meant that Eames hadn't spent much time thinking on the odd incident with the pen. Anyway she had bigger things on her mind than silly parlour tricks. Things the size of a larger than life detective, things Bobby- sized. After all, what use was a little 'mind over matter' when there was all that potential packed in his large frame?

She was not best pleased to see Frank.

She knew it meant that something else was about to land in Bobby's life and, for all her decisions to act, that once again the timing would be wrong. Her mind slammed the desk drawer shut, expressing the frustration she didn't voice.

She hadn't been wrong.

For all his cynicism and anger, Goren had been pleased to see Frank. It meant a distraction; something else to occupy his mind, something else to lose himself in so he did not have to worry about his sanity.

The voice in his head has been mercifully silent all weekend but the moment Eames walked into the squad room it was back.

"_Fuck it. Fuck him. Oh, for the chance..."_

Perhaps she was the trigger to his delusions?

Something was definitely amiss at Tates. Eames' cop instincts could not deny the fact and those same instincts could not let her ignore it. But Bobby -what the hell was driving him so hard? Yes, he was worried about his nephew but there was something more...

Donny bothered Goren. He'd tried to go in with a professional attitude, to keep things polite but distant, to try not to get emotionally involved. After all, his other family relationships had taken more from him than he had gained. But Donny's distress and his behaviour were uncomfortable reminders of his own worries about his mental health and once again he adopted the roles of caregiver and champion. If only someone would do the same for him...

Sick leave! He was not sick – was he? But it was an opportunity to investigate Tates, an opportunity to save Donny. His mind skirted around the thought that it was also an opportunity to find out if a mental ward was where he really belonged. And a chance to get away from Eames – removing the trigger, silencing the voice. The voice that mocked him now as he place his phone on the desk.

"_There he goes – down the rabbit hole..." _

One hour late – no call.

Eames wrote carefully on the pad, the act unnecessary but it gave her something to do. She needed something to do because the restlessness was back. Around her things rattled; the drawer, the pens, the coins in her pocket because she was rattled. The flex to the lamp coiled and twisted just like the fear coiled and twisted in her gut. It was no good; she couldn't sit here and just _wait_. She watched Ross cross the squad room, looking dapper in his tux, off to enjoy some fancy event while Bobby was...

No! A crack appeared in the surface of her desk but she didn't notice. She was too busy trying to catch up to the captain.

Goren was busy with preparations and that was good. The sodium amytal was not good. Oh, it _felt_ good. The tension drained from his body, worry and stress drained from his mind leaving him open...

"_Poor man, he's really confused. A detective? Makes a change from Napoleon..." _

Through the haze of the drug the shrink's voice was loud and clear, her lips were not moving but his fuzzy brain was too occupied with trying to maintain his cover. Just another delusion, something else to hide.

Now they were all in his head, their voices clamouring for his attention and there was nowhere for him to hide.

" _Tough guy, huh? Pathetic..."_

"_...be fun taking him down..."_

"_Who cares? They're all criminals, scum."_

"_...nothing but trouble..."_

"_...stop them wriggling, writhing under my skin, stop them, stop them..."_

"_Uncle Bobby! Oh, no! What have you done?"_

"_Water, eh? Loser. Have some fucking water..." _

"_Cop? Arrest this, asshole." _

A soundtrack of secret scorn, of maniacal laughter, demented singing, words of pity and despair, words of hate and contempt crashed around in his brain and now he knew what it felt like to go mad. This was the breakdown he had dreaded - worse than he feared. The relentless heat, the unquenchable thirst felt right. This was hell.

The trip was interminable but at least Ross hadn't insisted on driving. Eames was glad of something to do, but the automatic transmission and the long stretch of freeway did not occupy her much. To try and take her mind off the worry, she thought of the way she had manipulated the pen. Entertaining, a little intriguing but useless. What she needed was the ability to fly or to teleport so she could get there faster. Maybe the power to turn back time so she could change the course of events. Or to see the future so she could have intervened earlier or would know that Bobby was going to be OK. Something made her glance over at Ross; his grim face making her abandon her fanciful thoughts.

It was hard to stand by and let Ross deal with the prison staff. Hard to sit in the Warden's office and listen to the subtle machinations, knowing that Bobby was nearby but out of reach. Harder still to sit in the SUV and wait, to watch the ambulance arrive...

She wanted to break down doors, to bust a few heads- anything to release this pent up frustration. But she maintained a tight control of herself , not wanting to do anything that might jeopardise Bobby's safety. The only signs of her tension were white knuckles as her hands gripped the steering wheel and the Kleenex slowly being shredded by invisible fingers in her pocket.

"Eames!"

Goren's voice was a hoarse whisper; the ice chips had not relieved the dryness that glued his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He felt his lips crack as his mouth tried to form more words.

"Hush..."

There was hush. No clamouring din; the voices of the doctors, the nurses, the orderlies, the other patient's, Ross all retreated from his mind as she drew near. There was just the sweet sound of Eames' voice, although her mouth remained tightly closed, biting back the tears.

" _Oh, thank God... so close to losing him...too close... and he doesn't know ... I've never told him... can't tell him , can't show him... not here, not with Ross watching..."_

Bobby's eyes closed as he relaxed to the lullaby of her words, drifting off into an untroubled sleep. And, at last, Alex found a use for her silly parlour trick. Invisible fingers stroked Bobby's cheek, invisible lips kissed his brow and Captain Ross looked on, unaware of the tender ministrations.


	10. Ross and Rodgers

A sense of dread descended on Ross as he entered the squad room.

The weekend had been hard work – his sons had come to stay and he was not accustomed to keeping two adolescent boys occupied. But they'd managed to have fun and he was pleased to see the young men they were becoming. The only 'flashes' he had experienced were innocuous; a goal scored, graduation hats flying, the shy smile on the face of a pretty dark-eyed girl. Nothing that couldn't be put down to the hopeful dreams of a proud father.

He'd missed seeing Elizabeth but he'd catch up with her today. And there was the concert later in the week; he was looking forward to seeing her wearing something glamorous... No, there was no reason for the way his chest tightened, a crushing weight descended and he struggled to breathe as he exited the elevator. The sensation had quickly passed leaving behind this sense of dread. Aware that his age and his occupation put him firmly in heart attack country, he thought about making an appointment with a cardiologist. Better still, he'd get Elizabeth to give him the once over.

His mood lifted and he caught sight of Logan and Falacci's toast. What the hell were they cooking up? And how hard was he going to have to work to deal with the fallout?

But it turned out to be Goren and Eames who had a problem. Suspect arrests, unfair sentences, reports of prison abuse all in a backwater town hundreds of miles away – and Goren's nephew caught up in the middle of it. He tried to concentrate but there was the return of the heat, the thirst, the raging headache all centred around Goren somehow. Giving in, he asked to speak to Eames alone. As Goren left the office the sensations vanished and he was able to think clearly again, was able to come up with a temporary solution to their dilemma.

He'd not been pleased to learn that Donny Carlson was in Holding, that yet again he'd given an inch and Goren had taken a couple more. But that was only one reason for his sharp tone. The thirst was another.

"He asked for tea – here."

He thrust the cup at Goren, before he succumbed to the urge to drain it in one gulp.

Rodgers had been pleased to spend the weekend without Danny. She missed him, but was struggling to deal with her feelings. If this strange ability had suddenly appeared, couldn't it also change just as suddenly? The thought that, mid- embrace, she might learn that she was just a passing fancy was horrible. She suspected that learning that she meant much more to him might be even harder to deal with. The brief glimpses into the lives of her 'patients' had given her a taste of what she had been missing. No, she was going to have to keep some distance. And she was going to keep her gloves on.

Easier said than done. She'd been curious about why Goren was so upset over the young lad he'd had exhumed. But reading the medical reports, she was glad she hadn't given into the temptation. Gender identity issues, schizophrenia, prison, torture – she wanted none of that in her head. Danny had been harder to sidestep. His obvious delight in seeing her, and his worries over his health, had tugged at her. Thankfully ECG's were not standard equipment in a morgue and she could cite the need to remain professional at work. The concert was going to be more difficult.

Ross was in a bad mood. The feeling of dread was almost constant, the pain in his chest came and went, every time he was anywhere near Goren he was hot and thirsty, Elizabeth was strangely distant and he'd just had an irate upstate police captain on the phone. Goren calling him crazy in the middle of the squad room was the last straw.

"Detective, in my office. Now."

As he confronted Goren, the sensations of thirst and heat were coupled with visions of Goren strapped to a table, in torment. He put it down to images of wishful thinking fuelled by his anger. He didn't really want to hurt the man, just wanted him out of here.

"I need you to take a week's sick leave."

Rodgers was conflicted. On one hand she was really looking forward to spending some time with Danny alone, and the concert promised to be wonderful. On the other hand, she was scared and feeling particularly vulnerable in what was usually one of her favourite dresses. Probably because it left her shoulders bare, and because she was wearing it here, at work. She felt a little ashamed at her sense of relief at Eames' intervention, whisking Danny away. Still, she was going to have to face up to it one day.

As Ross listened to the panic in Eames voice, he was flooded with dread and a terrible sense of guilt. There was no way he could let her deal with it alone, he had a part to play in this mess and he sure as hell was going to do what he could to fix it. During the long journey, he got as much information from Eames as he could deal with, needing an element of plausible deniability as he was going to have to work damn hard with the Brass to minimise the damage to all those involved. He felt the dread and guilt harden into steely resolve that allowed him to deal with the Warden in the most expedient manner.

Seeing Goren had been a shock. He was thankful for Eames' silence and obvious pre-occupation with her own thoughts because he didn't think he could handle any conversation at that time. The guilt had returned ten-fold. If only he had picked up on the clues, had been less sceptical about his – he finally accepted the truth – premonitions, he could have prevented this...

At Goren's disciplinary hearing, he longed to be seated by the detective, wanted to show his solidarity, his support. But protocol demanded he sit next to the Chief. As he listened to Goren's statement, guilt became regret. He had done what he could to mitigate the situation but it was out of his hands now. He vowed never to ignore his premonitions again.

Alone with Goren after the Brass had left, there was only silence. He wished he could reach across the table, take the man's hand, find some way to express... But the words would not come. There was just the silence... and that awful sense of dread.


	11. Secrets

It's been said that nothing makes us as lonely as our secrets and over the next few months this certainly was true for those affected by that fateful storm.

The novelty wore off for both Falacci and Logan, eroded by the constant need to be on the alert.

Falacci was scared of inadvertently burning someone or setting fire to the house while the kids were at home. This exacerbated her temper which only made things worse. She'd considered telling Steve but his frequent mockery of all things paranormal put her off. She'd even searched the internet looking for something that made her feel less of a freak but had only found frauds, charlatans and deluded crackpots.

Logan was not faring any better. His earlier thoughts of using his strength for gain rapidly vanished as he realised he would become a one-trick pony. And he didn't want to stand out, that got you all the wrong attention. Goren's suspension was proof of that. He liked belonging, liked being part of a team, liked being in his group of buddies. He was also fed up with having to _think_ before he did everything. It had gotten better with practice but the frequent mishaps when he was tired or distracted were annoying. And he still hadn't dared to explore the implications it could have on his sex life.

Their case involving the random shootings of those three good kids hadn't helped either of them. What was the point of having these 'gifts' if it couldn't prevent shit like that happening? Falacci and Logan became subdued, each aware that something was amiss with the other, but not yet having built up enough trust in their partnership to broach the subject. Logan's black book was abandoned.

Things weren't any better in the morgue.

Rodgers was conflicted. She realised that her forays into the last moments of the deceased's lives gave her insights into the cause of their deaths that would be hard to evidence in more scientific ways and that compromised her professionally. But sometimes she just had to _know_. Then there was the shameful urge to experience their emotional lives vicariously, because she was too fearful to have one of her own. She would resolutely keep her gloves on until the pressure built up and then, feeling like a junkie, she would give into the need. This conflict was reflected in her dealings with Danny. She would be distant or tetchy with him one moment and all over him the next. She was aware all this stress was making her tongue sharper and her attitude even blunter. If only she could find some upside to this ability...

Rodgers was not the only one who was stressed.

Alex was wound up tight. There'd been a few moments of reprieve when she was with Bobby at the hospital but since then the tension had gradually been building. The restlessness was back, the urge to _do _something - anything – was overwhelming. She'd not had the chance to talk to Bobby before he went on suspension and the only contact since had been by phone – hardly the most appropriate medium to declare your interest.

She was emptying the vending machine of candy faster than it was refilled, her runs were getting longer and she was pushing herself to beat the previous day's time. Everything irritated her, particularly Bobby's empty chair. Stoic by nature she had no outlet for her tension, not even the usual audience for her snark. So she resorted to the occasional slam of a door and the odd sigh, while around her things rattled and flexed and creaked. She hoped she would be able to settle down after she'd resolved things with Bobby, whatever the outcome.

The man in question was grappling with some pretty tricky issues of his own.

It might have been the rest in hospital, the end of the after -effects of the storm, preparing his statement for the hearing or the fact that he had faced his worse fear and had survived; whatever the reason, Goren's mind was back to its usual sharpness and the pieces had begun to drop into place. He'd thought of Eames voice and all the things he'd 'heard' in Tates, the words of apology from a silent Ross after the hearing... He'd played around with various hypotheses, eliminated them one by one and, just like Sherlock Holmes, had faced the remaining, improbable, truth. He could hear people's thoughts.

It had added a nasty edge to his confrontation with Frank.

When he stood in Times Square, 'hearing' the tantalising titbits and trivia of the throng of minds around him, he realised he was listening for the sound of Donny's thoughts. Fascinating, though it was, it brought up some difficult ethical and moral issues around privacy. Could he control it? Were there circumstances that it was unavoidable? Should he act on information gleaned? A thousand questions... He spent the first weeks of his suspension in experimentation, glad to be away from people he knew to avoid 'hearing' things that were none of his business, and to have the chance to 'practice' with strangers. It still felt wrong but it was the lesser of evils.

He was particularly avoiding Eames, because he just didn't know how to deal with her or her thoughts. He was obviously thrilled that her feelings matched his but there were some things you just shouldn't _know,_ no matter how close you were. And some things that needed to be said out loud for them to be real. No, he would talk to Alex in person when he had a better handle on this whole situation.

Goren was one of the many things on the mind of Captain Ross.

He was trying to find some way to get the suspension shortened. He tried petitioning various 'higher- ups', pulling strings, calling in favours but was met by a brick wall at every turn. The frustration added to his burden of guilt; Goren's empty chair a painful reminder of his failure. This strengthened his resolve to keep his vow regarding the premonitions.

So in addition to his already heavy workload as captain, he was meticulously recording the details of every vision, sensation, feeling , trying to find patterns in them, trying to make sense of them. He paid particular attention to the ones that occurred most frequently or were the strongest and those that seemed to indicate some sort of bad outcome. So far he had noted that every time he was near the elevator he got the chest pains, found it hard to breathe and had a sensation of being crushed. Any contact with Eames brought on random scenes of devastation. And when he was with Elizabeth his mind filled with visions of her crying. Somehow that upset him the most.

And, of course, there was the pervasive sense of dread. And he didn't need to be psychic to feel the tension and sombre mood in the squad room these days. It all added up to a feeling that there was a storm brewing or that some cataclysmic event was going to occur...


	12. Revelations

Goren did not want to go undercover; he already had enough to hide.

But he really wanted to get back to work. He'd had enough of solitary musings and silent conversations; his mind had chewed over the problems presented by the ability to peek into people's minds and he'd come to an uneasy acceptance of this new reality. Now he needed the challenges presented by investigations, needed a sense of normality and he really needed to see Eames.

Ross' jibe about being paranoid had an unpleasant resonance but he all he could see in the captain was stress. And all he could 'hear' was a mantra of desperation.

"_... I tried, I really tried... I'm trying but I can't see... I tried... I'm trying..."_

Goren had learned that thoughts only became audible when they were accompanied by strong emotion, so he did not doubt Ross's sincerity. He had also learned that, like conventional hearing, it could not be turned off, that you just tuned out the noise but sometimes could not help overhearing the odd phrase. The one he now caught from the caption chilled him.

"...something bad's coming... really bad..."

Working a couple of cases with Petronelli had been interesting, but had done nothing to ease Eames' tension. She missed Bobby and was getting a little tired of hearing about baby names and the such-like. She tried not to let her irritation spoil his joy. Even Logan and Falacci weren't providing much distraction these days. She was fed up with snide comments about her partner, Daniels was OK but he was not Bobby, who was not answering her calls, and the vending machine was broken because Logan had jammed the mechanism somehow. Eames huffed her bangs out of her eyes and soldiered on, oblivious to the gun locker warping behind her.

Although he had badly wanted to see Eames - outside the diner was not the time or the place. Goren was not in the mood to deal with her now; he was struggling with the undercover work, his lunch had been ruined by the sleazy thoughts of a fellow diner and Stoat was waiting for him. Her silent angry tirade rang in his head as he walked away.

Eames watched him leave; she was seething inside and took a moment to steady herself before marching off leaving a trail of twisted trash cans and bent road signs in her wake.

It was only years of police training, and a lifetime of stoicism, that prevented her losing control as she faced Bobby down the barrel of her gun. But as she watched him talk to Stoat she could feel that control slip, could feel the pressure building.

Ross cut short his call from the chief because the feeling of dread had suddenly intensified, the pain flared in his chest and images of a pile of rubble and a shroud of dust filled his mind. There was a sense of urgency. Keep them safe, got to keep them safe. The thought repeated over and over as he called the front desk, making up a story of a bomb threat to get the building evacuated. As the alarms sounded, a new thought flared in his panicked mind. Elizabeth! It was no premonition; he just needed to be with her.

Logan and Falacci had been heading down the stairs at a nonchalant pace, convinced the alarms were sounding for a regular fire drill - Falacci was glancing about guiltily - when Ross charged by them. They were startled to see him run past the door that led to the main foyer and head down towards the morgue.

"Rodgers!"

His cry spurred them into action and they hurtled after him - Logan pulling the banister loose as he negotiated the turn in the stairs.

"Eames, I'm sorry."

Bobby's inadequate words were the last straw. Eames let rip.

"That's all you have to say to me? I could have blown your head off back there. Eight years I've had your back –"

As she let the words fly she could feel something tear loose inside. Tear loose and let go.

Ominous creaks and groans reverberated around them as the steel framework of the building warped and twisted, as masonry started to crumble, as windows cracked then shattered.

Goren stood dumbfounded. He was not shocked by her display of anger, was barely aware of the noise around him. What held him spellbound was the torrent of her words and feelings unleashed in his head.

Ross burst through the door into the corridor leading to the morgue with Falacci and Logan hot on his heels. He caught a glimpse of Rodgers' golden hair and pale face just as the roof caved in. The pain exploded in his chest and his last thought, before it all went black, was;

"The elevator – I'm by the damned elevator."

Goren's eyes were locked on Eames', her feelings swirling around him and he had no words of his own, just his feelings. He gathered them all up inside, focused then _pushed_. Watched the expression in her eyes change from anger to surprise then deepen with understanding.

"_You..."_

Her voice was soft in his head.

"_Yes." _

Her eyes widened a little and he knew she had 'heard' him. The world seemed to shrink around them until it was just a universe of two; locked in a tight embrace although they were still standing several feet apart.

"Captain! Falacci! Rodgers!"

Logan's voice contained a note of panic in the dark. Falacci felt the dust clog her throat and she coughed out her reply.

"I'm here, I'm OK. You?"

"Yeah, a bit bruised. Can't see a fucking thing. Ross! Rodgers!"

"Here, Logan, I'm over here. Danny?"

Rodgers' voice cracked with fear.

"We need some light, we've got to find him, I saw..."

Falacci was disturbed to hear the hysteria in the normally unflappable ME's speech. Light? She could do that. She held out her hand, concentrated, tried to block out the frantic exchanges between Rodgers and Logan – nothing happened. If only they would shut up! Her anger flared, as did the flames now leaping up from her palm. Logan's grin was a welcome sight.

"Always thought you were a firebrand."

The moment of light relief was broken by the sound of Rodgers' sobs. They turned to see Ross, lying face down, partially buried under rubble. Rodgers' hand was stroking his cheek.

"Is he ...?"

She looked up at them, eyes shining with tears.

"No, but I can _feel_ him. We've got to get him out of here."

Logan didn't pause to consider her strange choice of words, just swung into action. He moved the rubble crushing the captain and then, pleased to have finally found a constructive use for his strength, cleared a pathway until he could see daylight. Recovering from the shock, fear and astonishment, Rodgers tended to Ross' wounds as best she could before she allowed Logan to gently carry him out, guided by Falacci's unwavering flames.

Epilogue

Ross gazed fondly at the extraordinary people gathered around his hospital bed.

Elizabeth had filled him in on their lucky escape and on the surprising skills displayed by Logan and Falacci. He glanced over at them, both a little battered and bruised but grinning like Cheshire cats. Strength and fire. God help anyone who gets on the wrong side of those two. He shuddered a little at the thought of trying to keep them in check. But perhaps it would soften some of their more abrasive tendencies.

He looked across to Goren and Eames, unscathed, radiating a sense of ... oneness. That, somehow, seemed even scarier. Eames was full of remorse but he was sure Goren was helping her get over it. And 1PP had been in need of refurbishment, anyway. Telekinesis and telepathy – hmm, he was going to have to keeps his wits about him with them.

He felt a gentle squeeze of his hand and looked up at Elizabeth. She'd told him of her own 'gift' and he'd marvelled at what a fit it was for his own. One feeling the past, one feeling the future. Both feeling each other. She dismissed her ability as worthless, but he could see what a comfort it could provide to grieving loved ones and maybe, with a little time and practice, she would be able to 'see' the offenders. He needed time and practice, as well, to hone his own abilities to keep these people safe.

But there was no hurry. All he could 'feel' at the moment was hope and love.

_A/N_

_Thank you for joining me on this flight of fancy – I hope you enjoyed it._

_And particular thanks to WendyCR72 – who along with months of excellent beta-ing, provided the inspiration for this story._

_Usual disclaimer; LOCI is not mine – but the Mutant Cop Squad is – and maybe they'll return to continue their adventures next year..._


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